The African trinkets

If you don't mind, leave

*a picture of Marcus played by Michael Hudson*

Leave by Glen Hansard

"I can't wait forever", is all that you said Before you stood up But you won't disappoint me, I can do that myself But I'm glad that you've come  

Now if you don't mind leave, leave And free yourself at the same time leave, leave I don't understand, you've already gone  

I hope you feel better, now that it's out What took you so long? And the truth has a habit of falling out of your mouth Well, now that it has come  

If you don't mind leave, leave And please yourself at the same time leave, leave Let go of my hand You said what you came to now leave, leave  

Let go of my hand You said what you have to now leave, leave, leave, leave Let go of my hand You said what you have to now leave, leave

After scrunching up the hundredth sheet of sketch paper Marcus was beyond perplexed as to why he couldn't do a simple landscape sketch. He'd even gone as far as the city's park as to seek some inspiration but his faulty perception of depth and his warped sense of line foiled his attempts. Marcus had previously thought that he was tense and needed to relax so he made a day of his outing by packing himself a few sandwiches and a picnic blanket; in short he was having a lonely bachelor date with himself.

The park was relatively quiet and empty; apparently the charm of nature no longer amused the inhabitants of the city. Marcus had dismissed the carriage boy because he did not see the point of making his poor servant wait around for hours on end with nothing to do but watch his master draw. He took a deep breath to focus and forcibly summon inspiration as he fingered his way through the pages of his sketch pad.

His past sketches were all to be sold to "smoke room friends" who requested pocket sized images of nude women in a most detailed fashion. He flipped through the porn which inspired guilt in him because he sketched the faces of girls with whom he made polite conversation with on top of bodies of large breasted, narrow waisted, wide hipped and thick thighed which did not resemble their true form. He mused that the bodies he conjured more truly resembled the servants with whom they cavorted. The very last sketch he drew was Magnolia's Nd suddenly he felt a lustful inspiration which he scolded himself for. He tore the page out and just before he attempted to tear it up he paused; realizing that Magnolia, in a most exploited state of being sprawled on top of Lance, was the last picture he drew. Part of him wanted to discard the drawing while the other part of him wanted to tuck the drawing away for shameful, future use.

Marcus clawed at his face, frustrated with this unnecessary inner conflict, and lay down on his picnic blanket. He closed his eyes and tried to root out how and why this single, immoral drawing had affected his drawing ability. Without even thinking about it, that awful afternoon played behind his eyelids and the fearful look on Magnolia's face was the most vivid element of the memory. Lance and Phillip were mere ghosts of the event- irrelevant or maybe Marcus labelled it as irrelevant because he didn't want to reignite the raw rage that consumed him from head to toe as a result of the incident.

Much like his guilt; his rage was divided between raging at the dog that is Lance and himself. Marcus remembered his very vivid dream that night which involved Magnolia, in various compromising positions, and himself. The dream scene mimicked the afternoon save the absence of Lance and Phillip; Marcus and Magnolia were together and alone. Marcus had drawn the deliciously exposed Magnolia and she disapproved of his inaccurate portrayal, complaining that he did not understand the dimensions of her body. Magnolia insisted that Marcus acquaint himself with the shape of the mounds of flesh on her chest and the butter soft texture of the skin of her bottom and thighs. Marcus, being the professional artist that he was, obeyed and in a heated encounter familiarized the geography of Magnolia's body.